


Caring

by zauberer_sirin



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Cuddling & Snuggling, F/M, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Future Fic, Hurt/Comfort, Make Daisy Happy, Romance, not Lincoln friendly
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-19
Updated: 2016-04-19
Packaged: 2018-06-03 07:07:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,809
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6601537
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zauberer_sirin/pseuds/zauberer_sirin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Daisy gets shot and she and Coulson ended up stuck in a motel during a snowstorm.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Caring

There is someone talking in the room.

There’s a room, which is good, Daisy guesses.

There’s _Coulson_ talking inside the room.

Good, because that means he’s okay.

Good, because that means he’s with her.

“Simmons, I just don’t know what to do,” she hears him say. She doesn’t like the panic in his voice. “We can’t go to a hospital and we’re stranded here.”

The snow.

Daisy remembers the snow.

She remembers Coulson getting her out of the car, his arms around her and under her as he carried her into the room. A room she doesn’t recognize. She arrived in it with snowflakes melting over her clothes and hair.

She shivers at the memory.

“Okay, okay,” she hears Coulson say. Calmer now, more purpose in his voice. “I’ll do it. You guide me through.”

Is there someone else in the room? Is he talking to her? No, no, he’s talking on the phone, she remembers. Everything is fuzzy. She can’t focus on anything but the throbbing in her left side. She tries to feel around her with her powers but her vibrations are mute, she’s unable to reach further than the gaping wound above her hip. She presses her face against the pillow, trying to find some kind of touch that will soothe her. Or maybe she wants to scream and not be heard.

“Daisy?”

She opens one eye but can’t speak back.

She opens one eye and at least she recognizes his face - pale and worried and awful, but his - and remember she’s not alone. Coulson. Maybe it will be fine. If only her stupid body would stop hurting.

Coulson puts one hand over her right shoulder.

“I need to leave,” he says, apologetic. “For half an hour or so. I need to-”

He struggles, like he’s the one who has been shot.

“We need some drugs for you,” he tells her, pouring out the words very slowly like she not understand them. “And some other stuff.”

She feels that if she opens her mouth she might scream, so she nods instead.

Coulson touches her shoulder again and it feels kind of remotely nice.

“I don’t want to leave you,” he says, looking back at the door for a moment, like he is stuck and can’t decide.

Daisy doesn’t think anyone has ever said those words to her before.

 

+

 

She wants to sleep but can’t. The pain keeps stabbing her brain, and he’s super thirsty.

She doesn’t really know how long Coulson is gone. For a moment she forgets what happened and is confused by feeling a hole in her body. She’s sweating a lot, which makes no sense because it was cold a minute ago and she could swear there was snow.

Then Coulson is back, and he’s next to her, his voice calling her but like he’s underwater, and he’s shaking her very gently and touching her cheek to get her to react.

She opens her eyes.

Coulson smiles with relief.

“Skye…”

This time he realizes all on his own.

“Sorry, sorry, _Daisy_.”

He tries to turn her on her back and sit her up a bit, looping one arm around her uninjured side. Daisy moans with pain.

“It’ll help you sleep afterwards,” he tells her, pushing a couple of pills into her right hand. She realizes she can’t move her left hand at all, her whole left side is numbed with pain - a nonsensical expression but that’s how it feels..

“After-wards?” she asks.

Language feels alien on her tongue and her tongue feels heavy and made of granite. does she even know what granite is or does she just think the word fits? She never finished school after all.

“I need to patch you up,” she hears Coulson say, while his hands start peeling layers of clothes off her, painfully, while the fabric sticks to her, the blood on them dry.

“Is it going to hurt?” she asks. She _meant_ for it to sound like a joke because of course it’s going to hurt, they both know it - but out of her mouth it sounds pathetic and terrified.

Coulson touches her left temple, brushing her hair aside. giving him a weak smile. _So weak, Director. You should practice this one_.

“Based on personal experience?” he says. “It’s going to hurt a lot. But then you’ll feel better afterwards.”

Where is this mythical Afterwards he keeps talking about?

 

+

 

She doesn’t particularly fear pain.

Maybe because she has never been unfamiliar with it. Nothing like when she joined SHIELD but she had had her brushes with injury and hurt before. And then afterwards - getting shot that first time had been shocking, she could have never imagined how painful it could be. It was painful beyond the imagination but after that Daisy wasn’t afraid to get hurt again. Or rather, she was afraid, but other things mattered most, and she knew she could survive pain. That’s what she always got out of it: whether she was thirteen or twenty five, she knew she could survive pain.

But that doesn’t mean she’s not in pain, right now.

Coulson has given her a ton of painkillers and spent many minutes cleaning the wounded area before patching her up. She still can feel the prick of the needle on already tender flesh. In the end she thinks it’s exhaustion not pain (she is not scared of pain, not anymore) that she passes out.

 

+

 

He keeps waking her up.

“Why do you hate me?” Daisy asks, very seriously, a bit out of it. She thought Coulson _loved her_ , why would he be so cruel as to not let her sleep?

She can feel his finger wrapped around her neck. They’re cold. Or maybe she’s hot. Fever hot. Sick.

“Simmons told me to wake you up ever hour to make you drink some liquid,” Coulson explains.

But she’s tired, too tired. Or maybe she’s weak. She can’t tell the difference.

“Just let me sleep,” she tells Coulson, only half realizing it’s him holding her up so she can drink from the bottle.

She tries to push him away but he closes his fingers around her hand.

“It’s okay, I’m a terrible patient as well,” he tells her.

 

+

 

The next time she wakes up she feels more clear-head, like pavement after rain, and vaguely embarrassed by her earlier behavior when Coulson was trying to help her.

She’s still weak but she can sit up on the bed without help.

When she finally lifts her head Coulson is there (she feels illogically relieved to see him, like she was half-expecting to have been left alone), a chair pulled up against the bed and almost smiling. He looks relieved too.

“How are you feeling?” he asks.

“Like crap.”

“Good.”

She guesses he’s right. It would be kind of alarming if she couldn’t feel any pain. 

She looks around, realizing for the first time where they are. A crappy motel room (she’s sorry to overuse that word but she’s feeling pretty much like that - crappy), small, one bed, and not particularly warm. After a moment she realizes the not-warm feeling comes from outside, and through the blinds she can see the shadow of snow falling. Yes, she remembers snow all over her and all over Coulson’s hair and face as he was pleading with her to “hang on”. Or is she mixing memories?

“Getting shot is the worst,” she declares.

“It’s pretty bad,” he agrees. “But getting stabbed in the heart is no picnic either.”

Daisy raises an eyebrow. “Oh is this a competition now?”

Coulson chuckles, and she can see it’s mostly out of relief and not amusement, seeing her be herself again. He sounds like he’s missed her (which is absurd and it’s probably the fever talking). She wonders when they got to the point where he can crack a joke about his more-than-near-death experience with her. She likes it. Like the match. Comrades in pain. Makes her feel less lonely. 

“I’m glad you’re feeling better,” he says, leaving his chair and sitting on the bed closer to her. “Do you mind if I take a look at your wound?”

Daisy shrugs, it’s not like it’s really a request but his voice is soft and polite for her benefit, since he’s asking permission to roll up her top over her breasts. It’s not like there’s much point in modesty anymore, since she’s not even wearing pants.

“Ugh, I don’t want to see,” she says when Coulson picks the gauze out of the way. A big patch of skin on her left side looks like something out of a Cronenberg movie and feels pretty much like it looks.

Coulson presses his fingers to the area around it and Daisy winces accordingly. Muttered apologies and careful hands, like Daisy’s body is something very precious which must be handled like the most expensive collectable in Coulson’s collection. It’s a strange feeling - she never considered her body something valuable. It was probably better that way, all things considered.

“I’m sorry, I did what I could,” Coulson says, getting the first aid kit from the bedside table. “But I’m not a surgeon. I’m afraid it will leave a scar.”

When he finishes putting a new bandage on it Daisy presses her thumb against it, feeling the tender flesh ache underneath. The pain is still excruciating, but only when she moves.

“I don’t mind scars,” she says, suddenly thinking about his, which she hasn’t even ever seen.

Coulson sits on the chair again, staring at Daisy and she notices the moment his eyes harden.

“Why did you do it?” he asks.

She doesn’t pretend she doesn’t know what he’s talking about. She knew he’d eventually be crossed about it and she hoped that getting shot could spare her the conversation. She wants to shrug or joke it away but it’s too important. So much she doesn’t understand why Coulson has to ask _why_ , it’s obvious why she would put herself in danger for his sake.

“That guy was going to shoot you and I… I didn’t have time for my powers,” she explains.

He shakes his head, like he’s angrier at himself than her.

“You should _never_ ever take a bullet for me.”

“You’d take one for me,” she throws back at him.

“Yes, but it’s not the same.”

“Why?” Daisy asks.

“Because you’re-” he stops himself, looking away. 

She feels a tension in her chest for a moment, then Coulson looks back at her with a fake smile, pulling the bed covers up to her neck, patting the fabric down.

“You should rest some more,” he tells her. “It doesn’t seem like it’s going to stop snowing anytime soon. And since it looks like you’re going to be okay… I don’t want to risk an extraction that might drive attention to this place.”

“They’re still looking for me?” Daisy asks.

Coulson nods slowly.

“I will get you home,” he promises, meaning it. “Just give me a couple of days.”

She nods, needing to believe him.

“I bought you some clean clothes,” he adds. “Oversized, so you can breathe.”

He produces a large t-shirt that cover Daisy down to her knees, some underwear and socks. He helps her into them, like he does this every day - and well, when he rolls the warm and comfy wool socks over Daisy’s ankles, holding her feet in his hands with as much care as he would an injured area, Daisy thinks it wouldn’t be so bad, having Coulson do this every day. It’s a stupid and sort of creepy thought and she knows her fever is going up again.

 

+

 

Her hair is still a mess and she asks Coulson to help her wash it. She feels bad about asking but Coulson shakes his head and says he should have offered earlier. Daisy is not used to not being able to do things on her own and it stings, she has made self-reliance (in every sense, not just physical) a way of life.

“Sorry you can’t take a shower yet,” he says.

“Because of the bandage?”

“Yes.”

Daisy thinks about Coulson being willing to help her shower, if that had been possible at all; he would have undress her carefully and check the water temperature before he held her and helped her into the bathtub. He would have done it, he _would do it_ , she knows, without thinking twice or letting possible awkwardness get in the way of helping her or take care of her. Daisy feels that pressure on her chest again, and for a moment she can’t breathe, a bit choked up by the idea, by the image of Coulson handling her naked, injured body under the water, making sure she doesn’t slip.

“Is this okay?” he’s asking now, fingers through her hair, worried about the tap water being too hot or not hot enough.

“Yeah, I’m okay,” Daisy lies.

He applies some soft pressure to her scalp, massaging her head. Not strictly necessary for the purposes of washing her hair, he’s just trying to make her feel better.

There’s a hint of red on the tips of his fingers when he stops.

“I know this is the life I signed up for,” he says quietly. “But I can’t get used to the idea of having your blood on my hands.”

Daisy knows he’s thinking about Garrett and how he ordered her shot just to push Coulson. They have never really talked about that. She’s always wondered. If it was just random and Quinn would have shot any one of Coulson’s agents, or if something in the field reports Garrett had access to made him pick Daisy specifically.

“Sorry,” Coulson says, picking up what he was doing - squeezing the dirt out of Daisy’s hair - and giving her a reassuring smile. “You’re the one who got shot and here I am whining. It’s not fair.”

She hasn’t let herself think about Lincoln in weeks but now she thinks about how she could have been killed and he would have never known, and he didn’t look like he cared much about that possibility when he walked away. She knows it’s better this way (he asked her to come with him, and the fact that he genuinely thought she was going to leave her life and powers behind was proof enough that he never knew her at all, did he) but the idea still stings her.

“Can you...can you hand me more of those painkillers?” she asks Coulson.

“Are you feeling worse?” he asks, taking the bottle from his back pocket. Daisy thinks it says something that he keeps the pills on his person. It says something nice. 

“No, I’m just- I’m just tired.”

He nods and towels her hair for a while, holding her up when she is ready to go back to bed.

“I have to make a couple of phone calls,” he says. “I’ll be right outside this door if you need me.”

Daisy tries to smirk. “I will shake the room if I need you,” she jokes, making it sound a little flirty, like that famous Lauren Bacall scene.

He hesitates, like he doesn’t want to leave her alone again.

_I don’t want to leave you_. She remembers his voice back then.

“Coulson, it’s okay,” she tells him. “I’m better now. You don’t have to-”

Worry? Care so damned much when no one else has before? Daisy is not sure what she’s about to say here.

 

+

 

She has really messed up dreams this time around. She’s reliving the scene in the warehouse, except she doesn’t get to Coulson in time and she can’t take the bullet meant for him. When she turns around to see who shot she sees Jiaying, like she was the last time she saw her alive, the wounds on her face pouring blood. When she turns back again Coulson is inside a hyperbaric chamber, trapped while Daisy struggles with the control panel to get him out, but instead she presses a button that leaves him without oxygen.

Messed up dreams, but not exactly unusual for her.

 

+

 

Coulson’s not there when she wakes up, and she has the feeling that she has slept for a long time.

She doesn’t panic like usual - she knows Coulson hasn’t abandoned her. He wouldn’t.

Looking around she notices he has left a note for her on the other pillow.

Daisy smiles at his neat handwriting, which looks a bit childish. And he signs it, like there’s any chance she’d mistake who it’s from (Daisy rolls her eyes a bit at that). He tells her that he’s gone to buy some food and the moment she reads that Daisy realizes she’s really, really hungry.

She almost flings herself at him when he comes back with a couple of bags in his hands, she’s starving.

“The soup will do for tonight,” he says, putting the rest of the food away. “Simmons told me not to overdo it with the solids until tomorrow.”

Daisy pouts. The turkey sandwiches he brought seem a lot more delicious.

She makes room on the bed for him to sit while they eat. Coulson remembered that simple tomato soup was her favorite, no fancy stuff. The tv signal is mainly busted, except for the local traffic channel, which they watch rapt as if it were an HBO production.

“Still snowing?” she asks.

Coulson nods, wiping his mouth before speaking. “The streets are impracticable. I almost didn’t make it back from the store.”

She can’t quite use the spoon yet - she’s only just recovering mobility in her left hand - so she eats the soup directly from the paper bowl. It’s pretty bad but she’s so starved.

“Do you want help?” Coulson asks her.

He’s done enough - he’s done way too much - there’s no need for him to feed her too.

“No, I’ll manage.”

“There’s no shame in getting hurt, Daisy. It’s part of being a SHIELD agent.”

She doesn’t want to admit it but she is a bit ashamed about the whole thing. Specially now that the danger is over and she just feels like a burden to Coulson. She should be anything but. They’re stuck here because of her, and he’s stuck playing nurse.

“Did it ever happened to you?”

“Of course,” he replies. “When I was a rookie I broke my collarbone during a mission and my partner had to take care of me. Couldn’t even go to the bathroom on my own.”

“You couldn’t go to a hospital?”

“It was a very covert mission,” he says, sounding embarrassed about SHIELD’s past. Daisy wants to tell him there’s no need, that the past is all screwed up but it’s not his fault, it’s Hydra’s.

He also looks a bit sad, like he just remember something he hadn’t thought about in a long time.

“Was he a good partner?” she asks.

That seems to shake him out of it. “Dave? Yeah, he was good,” Coulson says. “But you are a much better SHIELD agent than I ever was.”

Daisy tries to pull her knees towards her, a reflex when she’s uncomfortable, but the wound won’t let her.

“You don’t have to compliment me just because I’m injured,” she tells Coulson.

“You know I wouldn’t do that,” he says, trying to give her an encouraging smile, touching her left wrist carefully, because that’s the side that hurts.

She watches the light slowly disappear from behind the window blinds. They’ve been here a whole day. It’s not exactly safe to be here but she can barely walk, and she knows she’s not well enough for a car ride. And in any case, the snow. A Quinjet could get here, probably, but the team is under constant surveillance. Daisy thinks it’s very troublesome just being her, because some guys in Washington decided that being her was dangerous.

Her hunger disappears soon when she thinks about that and she leaves half of the soup.

Afterwards Coulson brings her some hot chocolate from the vending machine in the motel reception, and a coffee for himself.

“How is it?” she asks, peering at the dirty-water color of the liquid in his paper cup.

He tries it and makes a funny horrified grimace.

“Better than the coffee in Milan,” he replies.

“You’re such a snob, Director.”

She doesn’t want to laugh.

Breathing still feels like inhaling needles.

 

+

 

The chocolate and a new round of drugs helps, and soon she is feeling blissfully sleepy.

She is not sure how they did this last night, but with Coulson basically operating on her and then checking that her fever didn’t get worse during the night she guesses sleeping arrangements weren’t a priority.

“You don’t have to sleep on the chair or anything,” she tells Coulson now. “The bed is big enough.”

He looks hesitant. It makes no sense - he has seen her naked at least twice today, sharing a bed shouldn’t be a problem.

“I wouldn’t want to move while I sleep and…” he gestures towards Daisy’s body. “Hurt you.”

That’s what he was worried about.

“Do you move a lot in your sleep?”

Coulson looks even more hesitant to answer that. Did she cross a line? Is the question too intimate?

“I usually sleep alone,” he answers, sounding deflated. “So I’m not exactly sure.”

“Oh.”

“I have an idea,” he offers. “If you really don’t mind sharing the bed.”

“Of course not.”

Coulson moves to the bed and takes one of the pillows in his hands, placing it on the middle of the mattress, separating the two sides.

“Oh I see what you’re doing,” Daisy says, amused by the old-fashioned gesture. She gets this silly feeling of _adventure_ , like they are having a slumber party, her and Coulson, like there’s no one else in the world but them. For a second it’s a comforting thought because she’s too exhausted to deal with the world right now - and Coulson is never something she has to _deal with_ \- she can’t even bring herself to think about more people, about the team worrying back at the base, about the people in DC making law that make her mere existence illegal, about the task force that must be out there looking for her right now.

Once the preparations are over (she can go to the bathroom without help now) they both lie down and she can tell by his breathing and his vibrations Coulson is actually grateful that she didn’t make him sleep in the chair. He wouldn’t have asked, himself. They’re kind of alike that way.

 

+

 

Having someone - not someone, but Coulson specifically - next to her in bed actually helps her heal.

For one thing it’s warmer.

And then there’s the way her powers work. Even asleep she can feel the vibrations around her, they seep into her unconsciously. There’s an empathic side to her powers that took her a while to notice. Because she can’t really keep other people’s vibrations out. Coulson’s are familiar and soothing. Sleeping next to someone whose body exudes safety, and affection for her, Daisy can’t explain the science of it, but it helps her own body recover, like she’s drawing strength from the other person, literally - but not like a vampire, she hopes not.

They both wake up way past noon. Coulson must have been exhausted as well. The day is dark again and she has the feeling the noise snow makes falling against the building hasn’t stopped the whole time she’s been asleep. It takes Coulson a good ten minutes to be able to get up - Daisy wonders if he’s always this lazy in the morning.

The ritual is relaxing: Coulson asking if she is feeling better, first of all, and after washing up he takes a look at her wound, to check it’s not infected or anything.

 

+

 

He brings something hot from the machine, a tea for her and more crappy coffee for himself, so they don’t have to just eat cold.

The turkey sandwich, so delicious-looking yesterday, is actually pretty bland and horrible.

Coulson looks at the window, like he’s gauging if the weather would let him leave and get something else. 

“I’m sorry I can’t get you something better to eat.”

She shakes her head. “I bet if we were back at the base you’d be cooking for me yourself.”

He looks away, a bit flustered, like Daisy has found out some terrible secret. It’s nice eating together, on the bed, hiding out. She used to do this all the time - hide in motel rooms, sometimes from bad crap, sometimes from the law, sometimes from herself. She just never had anyone hiding out with her before. Let alone someone who tried to make her feeling better with supermarket sandwiches.

“I had a foster mom who did that, trying to make things okay with food,” she says, remembering. “Not that you are like a mother to me, or anything.”

Coulson looks amused at that.

“She wasn’t a great cook or anything. It was just comfort food. Probably not healthy. She just thought she could fix everything with food. But I was too old by then and-”

“And what?”

“Well, by then I couldn’t be fixed with food. Or be fixed at all.”

Coulson keeps quiet for a moment, debating with himself whether to say something. But in the end he can’t stop himself.

“I don’t believe you had to be fixed at all,” he says in a low voice. “But I’m sure your foster mother was just happy to be able to cook for you.”

It’s clear he means to say that of himself as well, and Daisy thinks about all those times he did little stuff for her, crack a joke when he was feeling unsure, share a chocolate bar, make her soup, tell her something about his father. All those times… did they make Coulson a bit happier too?

 

+

 

He comes and goes for the next couple of hours.

To make some calls. And something else he didn’t quite explain or maybe Daisy wasn’t paying attention.

She suspects he’s leaving on purpose, so now that she’s feeling better she can be alone for a while, like he’s worried she might be crowding her or being overbearing in some way.

“I got some clean sheets from reception.”

“Won’t they get suspicious?”

“I think this is the kind of motel where they don’t get paid enough to look suspicious.”

“Ah, yes, I know a lot about those,” she says, getting up so Coulson can make the bed. When she moves to help he gives her a murderous what-do-you-think-you’re-doing glare.

“Yeah?” he asks, and his voice can’t hide his curiosity.

“I lived in motels for like a couple of years,” she confesses. She doesn’t tell him it’s when she realized she couldn’t keep on spending her nights in internet cafes and sleeping in parks during the day, once the bad weather started. “They’re good places; they don’t ask about your life and they aren’t too critical of fake IDs.”

She keeps telling him old stories of her lowest times (romanticized of course, told as if they were exciting, hilarious anecdotes, no need to explain it wasn’t the case - Coulson knows she’s embellishing them, and he knows she’s not doing it for his benefit) while he helps her wash up a bit. She tells him lots of details, names of places, names of motels and about her permanent fascination about which exactly constitutes a motor lodge versus a regular motel. She tells him stuff that only Miles really knew about (and she tries to tell Coulson things Miles never heard of, because she thinks Coulson deserves the advantage), stuff Lincoln never seemed interested in. 

She still can’t get her side wet but she has regained mobility enough that she can use the showerhead to freshen herself up a bit, as long as she has Coulson there to give her some balance. It’s _extremely_ awkward and she feels a bit like a perv - not Coulson, her - but talking through it helps her feel less useless and Coulson, with his back turned to her to give her as much privacy as he can, laughs at a couple of moments (all of them involving young Daisy doing something pseudo-illegal). At the end of it he hugs her while he dries her off with the towel. They don’t comment on it, it just happens. Daisy gets the funny feeling that he’s hugging her out of gratitude - as a thanks for telling him about her past.

 

+

 

“I’m cold,” she says.

It’s around seven and she’s starting to feel tired out again.

Coulson takes her hands in his, rubbing his fingers against them.

“You’re a bit cold,” he says, slightly worried. “Let’s get you into bed.”

He gets in with her, careful that she is leaning on her right side. Then he lies facing her, putting his arm around her until Daisy has her face pressed against his chest, against the cheap fabric of the sweater he had to buy because his field clothes were full of her blood. She would normally be more hesitant about accepting the gesture but she feels a pang of greediness and she lets Coulson hug him, wiggling her body to press herself even closer to him. They both smell like the cheap motel soap she used to shower. It brings back a lot of memories - and the contrast with her current life overwhelms her. Her life is definitely harder, more complicated and dangerous, but right now someone she loves is holding her in his arms, which is the only thing she used to dream of when she was twenty and living in a place like this - different state, same tv set and choice of curtains.

 

“I think tomorrow you’ll be strong enough so we can leave,” Coulson tells her.

“Good,” she lies, pressing her mouth to the collar of his sweater.

It’s not that she enjoys being shot and almost dying.

It’s not that she wants Coulson to be stuck taking care of her like this, when she can barely feed herself.

But she knows she’s going to miss parts of this, of these last two days. She knows she will never get something like this again.

She feels her whole body starting to shake and for a moment she hopes it’s the fever.

“Are you crying?” Coulson asks, sounding _heartbroken_ about it. “No, no, don’t cry.”

Daisy presses her face harder against his heart, trying to stop the words and the honesty from pouring out, but it doesn’t work.

“I know it’s stupid and selfish, and you’ve been so worried about me, it’s not fair,” she rants. “But…”

Coulson pulls back a bit, holding her head in his hands so he can look at her.

“What is it?” he aks.

“I’m sorry, I’m so selfish, but it’s felt good, you know?”

He blinks, slowly catching up, she thinks. She half-hopes he doesn’t understand.

“This?” he asks, looking between them, at their limbs entangled.

“You treating me like I’m - patching me up, helping me shower, bringing me food. Holding me like this, now. _Taking care of me_.”

“Daisy,” he mutters.

“I’m so selfish.”

“Stop saying that,” he says, grabbing her wrist. “You’re not. You’re the most selfless person I’ve ever met.”

“But I hate the idea of going back,” she replies, pressing her body closer. “I want to stay like this.”

Coulson drops his head, kissing her forehead. 

“You don’t need to get shot for that,” he says. There’s something strangely strained in his voice as he speaks, and Daisy can feel his heart beating faster now. “I could… if you wanted, I could take care of you.”

“ _What_?”

She can feel the heat in his cheeks and he’s obviously forcing himself to hold her gaze.

“I would like to take care of you… for the rest of my life.”

Her heart drops because it’s the most beautiful thing anyone has ever said to her, but it’s the wrong thing.

“I don’t want you to just take care of me,” Daisy tells him, trying to be honest.

“That’s not what I meant,” he says.

He moves under the blanket with difficulty, coming closer (Daisy didn’t know there was _closer_ between them) and pressing his mouth lightly against her.

Daisy is startled, eyes wide for a moment until she realizes the kiss is going to go on and she relaxes into it, Coulson’s lips soft and careful on hers but greedy too, the way he wraps his hand around the back of her neck and pulls her in, she can tell without a doubt - _without a doubt_ \- that he doesn’t just feel affection or wants to take care of her when she’s sick. He wants her. And Daisy wants him too. It still hurts to move, but it would hurt her more to not pull him closer (yes, there is a closer - who knew).

She has been so stupid (she hopes Coulson doesn’t mind), not noticing how in love with Coulson she had been all this time, looking for this in all the wrong place, settling for things that made her unhappy because unhappy was better than lonely.

They break the kiss at the same time, both panting - okay, Coulson is breathing heavily and she is panting, but she’s been shot, come on, give the girl a break.

She brings her fingers to Coulson’s cheek, just like he had done with her before.

“Maybe we could take care of one another,” she says in a tiny voice. It’s what she has been looking for her whole life. Not someone she has to take care of. Not someone who takes care of her (thought she has no idea what that looks like, except for the last couple of days). She wanted both things. It makes sense she has only found it with Coulson.

Coulson gives her a little touched smile and it occurs to Daisy that maybe no one has ever offered to take care of him either. That he has been as lost and orphaned as she has.

“That sounds perfect,” he says, kissing her again.

 

+

 

He falls asleep first, which is a surprise.

After a long time of very romantic but mostly chaste kissing. With her injuries she can’t really do much more for now (and it makes her skin ache with longing, with impatience and anticipation, but it’s okay, she’ll take it slow).

There’s no pillow between them tonight. She presses her fingertips to his forehead, trying to ease the creases there. Why does he look worried even when he sleeps? She hopes to do something about that.

“We’re going to take care of each other from now on,” she whispers in his ear, tingling with excitement for the future.

Coulson stirs for a moment, but goes on sleeping, head tucked under Daisy’s chin.

She looks up at the window.

It’s stopped snowing.


End file.
